


caught in a dream

by kagako



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Angst, Dreams, M/M, Spoilers for the whole god damn show, there is maybe 1 happy line in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:36:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagako/pseuds/kagako
Summary: Takatora always wondered, of course, where Kouta went—but there wasn’t anything to wonder about, really, because the answer was there. It was clear as day and yet Takatora just simply—refused.





	caught in a dream

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! this is finally done after uh, since june. it was really hard to write because i want my boys to be happy always but i had to get this angst out of my system.
> 
> I hate myself and love to think about how much each boy suffers after the battle ends and kouta becomes a god and takatora is left behind after finally seeing kouta one last time and i want to Die
> 
> please enjoy!

Takatora always wondered, of course, where Kouta went—but there wasn’t anything to wonder about, really, because the answer was there. It was clear as day and yet Takatora just simply—refused. Denial formed and built a sturdy home in his heart, right next to the place where all his memories and meetings of Kouta where—tauntingly, mockingly, as if to say: _you know what is true and what is false._

He knew. He wasn’t a fool.

Waking up from the coma was the hardest—because Kouta was there, in front of him: flushed cheeks thanks to the warm air, mused hair due to the steady breeze. If Takatora had refused to wake up, then surely he and Kouta could have spent—how long together? However, there was an inkling thought—the dread that came along with the possibility that Kouta would have been angry at him, if he refused.

After all, Mitsuzane is his brother, no matter the wrong he did; and it was Takatora’s job, as his older brother, to take care of him, to forgive him, and to teach him that it’s okay to forgive himself as well.

So he woke—Mitsuzane’s wide-eyed, tear-stained expression slowly but surely replacing Kouta’s smiling face.

The feeling that settled in his chest wasn’t something he could describe.

***

What Takatora doesn’t expect are the dreams.

Sometimes, they blur and swirl like daunting clouds, and other times they are clear as day.

The first time he dreamt of Kouta after waking from his coma, it only left him with more shock and a bundle of loneliness.

_(He had opened his eyes to a meadow—littered with swaying colors and a wooden bench that seemed out of place, but Takatora hadn’t the energy to question it. At first, confusion swept over him—he hadn’t remembered such a place, never came across it in a magazine or seen it in an ad, but there was this tranquil feeling spreading throughout his body that caused his caution to dissipate. He stood in place, focused on the wind and the sun, the unfamiliar place and the feelings bubbling in his chest. Takatora felt a sense of home, which was a bit ridiculous, because this place seemed the farthest thing from home._

_In his concentration, his ears hadn’t registered the rapid footsteps approaching from behind; and Takatora doesn’t mean to jump in surprise when hands cover his eyes, but he does with a little yell and a loud voice in his ear saying, “Guess who, guess who!”_

_With his stomach in knots, Takatora thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to wake up, right about now._

_“Huh?” the all too familiar voice said, sounding sad and a bit shocked. “You want to wake up?”_

_With hands still over his eyes, Takatora wondered why he wasn’t waking up, although he was certain he was trying his hardest._

_“You aren’t waking up because I’m not letting you, Takatora.”_

_That caused Takatora to furrow his brow—the words didn’t make much sense, and the burn from hearing his name from Kouta’s voice stung more than it ought to have. Surely, his subconscious wasn’t that cruel._

_“Takatora?”_

_It was apparent, then, that his subconscious was truly that cruel._

_He doesn’t notice the hands leave his face until Kouta’s face comes into his vision, and a part of Takatora wants to look away—a part of him wants to refuse and pray to open his eyes and see the usual dark ceiling above him, but Takatora soon learned after waking up from the coma, that he is a weak man._

_When their eyes meet, Kouta’s lips widen in a smile._

_Kouta hadn’t changed much, Takatora thinks: his face is still boyish, his smile bright and wide but there was a strange, inkling feeling within him that thought Kouta’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but then again, how could he have expected Kouta to be a hundred percent the same, after becoming a God? The boy in front of him wasn’t human—and though he looked the same as ever, Takatora could sense an otherworldliness, deep in his eyes._

_The thought makes his heart sink to the pit of his stomach._

_“Takatora,” Kouta says again, gentler this time, as if he were coaxing a skittish animal to rub against the back of his hand. Somehow, Takatora doesn’t think it far from the truth._

_It took him a few tries—he opened his mouth, wanting to say the other’s name, but his tongue felt heavy and his mind felt like mush. Takatora looked away from the face he knew all too well—and instead he stared at the sky in the distance, and he watched the flowers sway in the wind until finally the name formed on his tongue: “Kazuraba,” carefully, deliberately, as if it had been decades since he’d uttered the first syllable._

_Kouta laughed at that, a little, and he said, “It’s me, Takatora—the same as the one on the shore side.”_

_He had many questions—his mind became bombarded yet he wasn’t entirely sure how to word them or if it would be okay to ask them. Takatora rests his eyes on Kouta: the same smile, the same eyes, the same voice and gestures._

_“This isn’t a dream,” Takatora said, for clarification more than anything._

_Kouta nods. “In a sense. I brought you here.”_

Right, _Takatora thought,_ because you’re a God now.

_He stopped short._

_“Can you read my mind?”_

_“Huh?” Kouta hummed, and then laughed: “No, I can’t. You were muttering to yourself.”_

_“Right,” Takatora said, because_ of course _that would happen to him. “You said that you aren’t letting me leave?” The thought terrified him yet exhilarated him at the same time, but Takatora knew Kouta would never keep him here, with him._

_“There are… a few things I can… control now—as… I am now,” Kouta tells him, hesitant, as if he wasn’t comfortable talking about it._

_Takatora paused for a moment, and instead of asking_ how’s being a God treating you? _he asked, “Where is this place?”_

_“I don’t know,” Kouta laughed it off, as if it were no big deal, which Takatora in turn thought was very like him. “I wanted to talk to you… and I wanted somewhere… peaceful, and this image popped into my head.”_

_Being the man he was, Takatora itched to ask for the specifics, the how’s and the what’s—but he figured maybe Kouta didn’t have it all down to a T yet, or perhaps the whole process just… happened, all phenomenon and mystery-like. Maybe Kouta yearned for something, and he got it._

_Takatora wondered, for a moment, if he’d ever get a solid answer to all this._

_Kouta seemed hesitant in his next words as he said, “How… is everything?”_

_He wanted to be bitter—he wanted to say,_ go find out for yourself, surely you could chance a visit, _but Takatora knew he was a better man than that. His reply comes slowly, void of bitterness and scorn, just as he follows Kouta to the out of place bench when he beckoned. As they sit next to each other, he says, “Healing,” as softly as he can, like he was trying to convince himself, as well._

_“Micchy?”_

_Takatora hummed, and wondered himself. How is Mitsuzane holding up? His brother doesn’t look at him some days while others, he doesn’t step foot outside his room. There’s this invisible shield that seemed to follow Mitsuzane wherever he went, much like his own shadow, which warded people, but not their stares, away._

_Carefully, Takatora tells him, “Mitsuzane… he… is also healing. Slowly, but… it’s a process.”_

_Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kouta nod. “Right, yeah. Of course. It’s a process.”_

_They sit in silence until Kouta speaks again: “The city?”_

_“Rebuilding, slowly—it’s a process,” he said again, for lack of anything better. “My company and I—we are aiding as much as we are able.”_

_Kouta seemed eager to spill his next words of, “and you, Takatora?” as if all the other questions beforehand were simply a buildup._

_Takatora was at a loss for words. He wasn’t terribly happy nor was he depressed—there’s an emptiness in him when he wakes up and goes to sleep, and it’s with him in all the in between’s, but he figured it was normal, something he could live with. It was hard—to wake up from the coma, to deny himself the warmth of the artificial sun, of the equally artificial beach, and of the equally artificial wind—as well of the man who was not human anymore._

_Surely, no matter God or Human, Kouta’s warmth would be real._

_“Takatora?” Kouta said, anxious._

_When he lifts his head and turns toward the other, he has to look away almost immediately. Takatora’s throat is dry and his chest seems to sink in on itself as he tells Kouta, “It’s… difficult.”_

_“I see,” is all Kouta says._

_What Takatora wants to say is,_ I miss you, _but he can’t bring himself to be that cruel._

_Either way, Kouta must understand, because he said, all smiles and dull eyes, “It’s okay. I’ll come back to visit again.”_

_Takatora wants to refuse, to tell him,_ that is not how I want to live, _but there’s a weakness in his chest that warms at the idea of seeing Kouta once more. He swallows his rejection and says, “Then, I’ll see you again.”_

In what seems like seconds, he’s waking, slowly: to the same ceiling, to the same light dancing around him as the sun filters through the curtains, to the same noises of the healing city around him.

The tears were the hardest thing to get through.)

***

True to his word, Kouta came again the next night.

He brings with him the park of Zawame City, minus the people and intense noises. The wind is there, as well as the sun—he can hear birds chirp excitedly but he sees none diving in the sky. Around him, trees rustle alongside the wind and this time, he can hear the footsteps behind him—but they are calm and steady and show no sign of mischief.

“Kazuraba,” Takatora says, and even though it leaves a strange taste on his tongue, he enjoys how the name rolls from him his lips effortlessly.

“Takatora,” Kouta says in turn. He walks a little ways past Takatora, hands in his pockets and nose to the sky. It makes memories resurface of this very park—meeting together after work, sneaking in a minute or five during a lunch break, sitting side by side on the tiniest bench underneath the tree that creaks in the wind because the sound makes Kouta laugh, and—here, the emptiness in his chest becomes too painful to ignore.

He clears his throat, brows furrowed as he follows Kouta.

“You liked this place, didn’t you?” Takatora asks, and he isn’t exactly sure why he says it—the words flow from his mouth like water overflowing from a glass, and the words dig up the exact memories he’s trying to forget. “You had a lot of memories, here.”

Kouta’s steps slow gradually. He looks thoughtful, as though he were trying to conjure the memories, to hit rewind and then play once more. Takatora can barely see his eyes, but even from the side view that he has, Kouta looks distant: his eyes are duller than they had been the night before, his lips are too lax and not curved into a smile, and his shoulders droop the tiniest bit.

Anxiety settles in Takatora’s stomach as Kouta finally blinks and looks upward again.

“Yeah,” Kouta says, but Takatora doesn’t have time for a breath of relief before Kouta’s continuing: “I mean, I think I did.”

They both pause here. Takatora looks anywhere but at Kouta while Kouta’s eyes don’t even register the branches swaying in the wind.

“You think you did?” Takatora’s saying, and he wonders why he sounds so offended. “You don’t remember?”

“I’m sorry,” Kouta says immediately, with a sigh that sounds of defeat. He reaches out, curling his fingers against Takatora’s shoulder—coaxing him, _look at me, Takatora,_ and after a moment, he does. His eyes greet Kouta’s dull ones, and it pains him and confuses him at the same time: _has it really been so long since it happened?_ he thinks, but of course it has. It’s been months, they both know that—and Kouta’s next words don’t help: “My memories have been a little fuzzy, lately.”

Takatora swallows his next words— _so you will forget Zawame City entirely?_ —and instead squeezes his eyes shut. Kouta’s hand is warm on his shoulder, just as he hoped it would be. They stand like that for who knows how long—Takatora’s head bowed with Kouta’s hand on his shoulder. A part of him wants to know more—how much he remembers and how much memory he loses with each passing day, how much he’s already forgotten and if he still remembers what it’s like to dance with his friends on stage with a crowd of people cheering them on.

“Say, Takatora,” Kouta speaks up then. His voice is cheery and Takatora could just imagine his eyes: wide with childlike excitement and wonder—except, when he looks, there’s a dullness there that is so out of place, it hurts. Takatora hums instead of speaking, because he can’t trust his voice not to crack. “Let’s go sit down, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and his voice cracks, but if Kouta heard, he shows no signs of it.

When Kouta leads them past their tiny bench under the creaking tree and to a wide bench facing the fountain, Takatora says nothing.

***

Kouta doesn’t come back to his dreams for a while.

Takatora wonders—perhaps he said something he shouldn’t have, or maybe Kouta realized his mistake in the park, or maybe he’s just busy or perhaps Kouta feels more than he lets on, and is just as strained from their situation as Takatora is.

In a way, he’s thankful to see Kouta—even if the whole process doesn’t quite make sense to him, he’s a bit happy about it: Takatora loves that boy, after all. Slowly, like spring coming to life after winter, Takatora opened himself and Kouta flooded in—emphasis on _flooded._ Kouta had always been something similar to a storm: calming, in a sense, yet unexpectedly he’d speed up and leave whoever in his wake disheveled and staring after him.

When two weeks of Kouta-less dreams pass, Takatora busies himself further.

There’s a seemingly growing hole in his chest, where he’s sure the emptiness was, but he isn’t quite sure anymore what should and shouldn’t be there. His hands flip through papers and a pen between his fore and middle finger signs his name and leaves circles here and there, but it all seems mindless. Each hour passes through his eyes in a blur, and the moon hangs high in the sky by the time he walks through the door and into the claustrophobia of his vast home.

When a month passes, he decides to sleep less.

After passing the moon in the sky on his way home, he stands in the study and decides to organize the book shelf, alphabetical order by author. It’s a soothing and simple process, and by the time he reaches into the third of the alphabet, there are multiple mountains of books piled around him as dust floats in the light that filters through the curtains.

He stares, and wonders what it’s like to fall so fearlessly.

“Nii-san?”

Takatora shakes away from his thoughts, turning his head to come eye-to-eye with his younger brother.

“Mitsuzane. Good morning,” he says with a smile that he’s sure is strained.

The younger looks over him carefully, and there’s a laugh bubbling in the back of Takatora’s throat upon seeing Mitsuzane assess him so thoroughly. He fights to keep it in, as well as his smile controlled and his hands steady; there is nothing he can do about the mountains of books around them, however, and Takatora finds himself desperately searching for an excuse, as laughable as it sounds.

“Organizing?”

“Something like that.”

Takatora watches as Mitsuzane shifts from foot to foot, as if weighing his words and his options. He could nod and mutter something Takatora can’t quite catch and beeline back to where he came from, or Mitsuzane could seriously try to reconnect with him.

Mitsuzane wonders how his brother is holding up—Kouta had meant a great deal to him, he knew; it wasn’t like it was terribly difficult to read between the lines, to see the softness in their eyes when they talked about each other, when they saw each other. He can see the paleness of his brother’s skin, even more profound in the rising sun—the circles under his eyes and he wonders if they mirror each other. There was a lot on Mitsuzane’s plate, but deep down he knew his brother wasn’t any better off. Takatora was just more in control, that’s all.

He opens his mouth, and he wants to say something meaningful and s _upportive,_ like the old Mitsuzane would, but there’s a voice in the back of his mind that tells him he’s better off quiet, in the shadows.

So Mitsuzane mumbles words of, _I’m here if you—need me,_ so quiet he wasn’t sure if Takatora heard—after all, the sound of the door shutting behind him drowned out all other sound.

***

Takatora feels as though he were on autopilot—which probably isn’t too far from accurate, he thinks with a weak laugh.

He sleeps every so often, more reluctantly than willingly; sometimes, when he dreams, it’s of places he had been with Kouta. Each time, Takatora closes his eyes, expecting to hear something: footsteps, a hitch of breath, or perhaps a boyish laugh that had always managed to make him smile, but he hears nothing.

Most nights, he forces himself awake and busies his hands and his mind.

When the months started to blur together, Kouta appeared again.

Takatora had felt different that day—a bit more upbeat, if he could call it that. He worked productively and ate his whole lunch instead of throwing more than half of it away. It was strange, and it had led Takatora to the thought of, _perhaps he is here._

But it was a foolish and dangerous thought, so he discarded it right away; after all, although the months blurred, he knew just how much time had passed.

That night, when Takatora closes his eyes, he’s out almost immediately and is once again opening his eyes to the meadow with the out of place bench. Someone is already occupying one side of it—his shoulders are not held straight, he is not humming a song from a commercial he heard an hour beforehand, and he is not the same Kouta that Takatora once knew.

However, it doesn’t stop his legs from leading him to Kouta’s side.

They sit in silence once Takatora is seated. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes ahead, painful to _not_ look Kouta’s way and just stare. Memories resurface and even then, Takatora is fighting them away, telling himself: _no, this has to stop,_ over and over like a mantra.

He’s thought about it, of course: not living with the dreams Kouta brings him; but he’s also thought about _living_ with them, and Takatora had come with the conclusion: wouldn’t they be equally agonizing? Takatora knew it was no way to live—he loves Kouta more than anything, and he knew he always would—there would always be a locked away place inside him for all things that were Kouta. However, there was only so much one could take.

It’s then that Kouta speaks.

“I told you I’d come back.”

Takatora hums in return.

“Did you get sick?”

“What?”

Here, he turns his head and looks at Kouta. There’s concern in his eyes, Takatora was happy to see: the same furrowed brow, the same almost-pout. It reminds him of— _no, this is no way to live,_ he tells himself, swallowing a smile and the burn in his throat.

“You… changed quite a bit. It’s only been a couple days. Have you gone to the doctor?”

Takatora doesn’t expect nausea to wash over him, but it comes in so forcefully that he can’t try to play it off. He feels the blood drain from his face and he feels the churn of his stomach, the way bile burns up his throat and how his lungs ache from the intensity of the cough that tears from his lips. Faintly, he hears Kouta startle beside him— _Takatora? Takatora, what’s wrong?_ but the only thing he can focus on is calming down. He’s hunched over, chest to his knees, and the vibrant color of flowers does nothing but make him dizzy.

“Ta—“

“What do you mean—“ Takatora starts, his coughs interrupting him. He’s struggling to catch his breath by the time he sits up; he doesn’t look Kouta’s way when finishes his sentence, “—it’s only been a couple days?”

The confusion in Kouta’s voice is as apparent as the sky is blue. “What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean, it’s only been a couple days—“

“It’s been four months, Kazuraba.”

Beside him, Kouta grows quiet. When Takatora chances a glance, he looks almost thoughtful, like the gears in his brain are trying to piece together the logic behind the concept of time. It’s then that Takatora’s mind supplies a disheartening thought: _perhaps our concept of time is different, now._

He doesn’t want to say anything, though—doesn’t want to make it a reality although that’s the only thing it could ever be. Takatora wonders which would be more painful: saying it himself or hearing it from Kouta’s voice.

“I think our concept of time is different now,” Takatora says hurriedly, as if it burned his tongue to speak.

Kouta doesn’t move for a long time. The two of them stay seated, still and quiet in the artificial wind and sun. It felt like ages, to Takatora, when Kouta finally lets out a long exhale, followed by, “I think… Mai might have said something similar.”

_Of course she did,_ Takatora wants to say, but instead what leaves his mouth is: “I want to leave.”

He sees the stricken look on Kouta’s face from the corner of his eye, sees the part of his lips and his eyes that are far too wide and filled with fear; but Kouta composes himself quickly as though slipping on a mask.

“Alright,” Kouta says, and the next minute, Takatora’s opening his eyes to his bedroom ceiling.

His eyes were dry, but the ache in his chest seemed to weigh him down more than usual.

***

Takatora denies himself the tranquility of sleep.

He holes himself up in his office at work, elbow deep in paperwork and proposals; his eyes ache with how many names and numbers his vision takes in. By one or two in the morning, he walks to the park where he is then interrupted by the blaring of his cell phone—his driver on the other line, _Kureshima-san, you must wake me up when you are ready to leave,_ to which Takatora forces what he thinks is a carefree laugh and says, _I did not want to wake you, you looked too peaceful._

There, he waits for his driver, or on some nights he gives a small sigh and refuses to be picked up and taken home. Some nights, the walk home helps him sort through his thoughts, helps him feel refreshed and ready to face the problem head on—however, by the time he makes it onto the property, the same anxiety he had let go ten minutes prior comes rushing back.

In the few hours until sunrise, he feels a steady lull—it’s deep within his chest, coaxing him, and there are faint whispers he hears but there is no one in the lonely mansion but Mitsuzane and himself. Takatora assumes it’s Kouta; he isn’t sure as to why, exactly, but the way the lull pulls and urges at him, he cannot think of any other reason.

He’s tired—he feels it in his bones and the way he stumbles through his words, a bit slurred and fumbled, as though drunk. Takatora knew there would be a time he would crash; after all, there is only so much one’s mental and physical health could take—and he knew that, of course. He knew the risks he was taking by denying himself sleep, by pushing his body past its limit—but a part of him couldn’t allow himself to see Kouta again.

There was so much he didn’t understand, and didn’t particularly _want_ to understand, now—he was nearing his wits end.

He wonders when the final bell will ring.

***

Takatora opens his eyes to—nothing.

Around him, space seems empty, white, as if he were placed in a box and put on display.

Hysteria rises in his throat and only seems to intensify when he hears, “Takatora,” in what sounds like Kouta’s voice.

He doesn’t want to turn around; he avoided the other this long, how could he face him now? There was a hole growing in his chest, rigged at the edges and Takatora thought he had learned to live with it, yet at the same time he knew that once he saw Kouta, it would have all been for nothing.

A steady lull tugs at his chest.

“Stop that,” Takatora pleads.

“I’m sorry,” Kouta says sheepishly. “I just—I’m, sorry.”

Takatora shakes his head.

“I just wanted to say, I won’t be coming to see you anymore.”

The words catch his attention. Takatora turns around, bracing himself, but Kotua’s eyes aren’t directed anywhere near him. “What?”

Kouta shifts, seemingly uncomfortable. “This is the last time.”

“I—why?”

“There is no place for me anymore, Takatora,” Kouta says, matter of fact.

“Come back,” Takatora says, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. It had always been a thought—surely he could appear in the living world? On desperate nights, with the lull promising memories and Kouta, he had busied himself, searching folklore, every nook and cranny. “Even if it’s for a while—not even a whole day. Come back.”

_There will always be a place for you,_ he wants to say.

Kouta hums, his face unchanging.

“Kazuraba?”

“What is it?” he asks, with a little laugh.

“You aren’t answering me.”

When Kouta says nothing, Takatora continues: “As… As I said… Even if it’s just, an hour—ten minutes. Come back. There are so many people that would love to see you again. Please,” he adds, because he knows he’s being desperate. The way his voice cracks, the way his throat dries with the threat of tears: it is all too real, too intense, and he is reminded of the reason why he so stubbornly avoided sleep, why he so stubbornly tired to forget.

Pleas sound foreign on his tongue, but it is not something he is beneath.

There’s a sad look in Kouta’s eyes when he finally looks at Takatora. Never before had Kouta looked at him with such heartbroken eyes—the suddenness of it left Takatora confused and momentarily speechless.

“I’m sorry, Takatora,” is all Kouta says.

Takatora opens his mouth to plead— _don’t say sorry, just come back—_ but instead what escapes is a scream. His eyes greet the gloom of his study, still littered with stacks of books and waded up papers thrown in frustration. The beat of his heart is eccentric, as well as the rise and fall of his chest—Takatora looks around, expecting to see Kouta standing there, expecting to hear a laugh and a sing-song of, _did a ghost run past you, Takatora?_

When neither expectation occurs, he focuses to find the lull in his chest.

That, too, is absent.

After a while, his heart calms and his senses relax.

It’s different, without the lull in his chest, but Takatora figures that, too, is something he will have to live with.

**Author's Note:**

> i also wanted to add a snippet with kouta and mai but i thought that would drag it out?
> 
> but regardless, thank you for reading!♥


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